


Talk Portuguese to Me

by aphilologicalbatman (inabathrobe)



Category: Football RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-29
Updated: 2017-04-29
Packaged: 2018-10-25 23:49:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,825
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10775046
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inabathrobe/pseuds/aphilologicalbatman
Summary: Cris and Ricky need to stop pretending that no one else in Spain can understand them when they speak Portuguese (filthily) to each other.





	Talk Portuguese to Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pimpam](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pimpam/gifts).



> Many thanks to [Yeats](http://archiveofourown.org/users/yeats), who saved my ass.

The first time, the very first time he does it, they're walking down a hallway in Valdebebas, talking quietly, using the usual innuendos and euphemisms, debating going back to Cris's house or watching the Liverpool match that half the squad is heading to some sports bar to catch. "We should go," Ricky says. "There'll be plenty of time after. We should go." They should socialize with teammates —beyond just Marcelo and Pepe, that is. They're still new here after all.

"I'm telling you: I _can't_ ," Cris says for the umpteenth time.

"Blah blah blah, old club loyalties." Ricky flaps a hand at him. "You're being ridiculous. United isn't even playing."

"It's the principle of the thing," Cris says. "You don't see me taking you to Inter Milan matches."

Ricky purses his lips. "Would it kill you to make small talk for an hour and try to pick up some pretty Spanish girls?"

"Maybe."

"Oh, please."

Cris stops in his tracks. "Can we please just go back to my house, so you can fuck me senseless and we can go to sleep at a decent hour?"

It takes Ricky's breath away. "Jesus, keep your voice down," Ricky hisses.

Cris shrugs. "What, you think the PTs speak Portuguese?" He smiles through the open door and waves at them, calling out, "Good night, guys," in his rudimentary Spanish. A couple of them wave back. "See?"

"Don't get cheeky," Ricky says begrudgingly, knowing he's lost this battle.

Cris smiles and ruffles the back of Ricky's hair. "Come on, I'll drive."

-

And, well, it _is_ fine because, after all, who would believe a random madrileño claiming he'd overheard Cristiano Ronaldo talking about Kaká's dick? Even Ricky barely believes it sometimes. So he doesn't think anything of it when they're strolling off the plane, smiling at the usual crowd of reporters and photographers, and Cris slings an arm around his shoulders, never looking away from the cameras, and says casually, "So I'm thinking I'm going to take you home with me and eat you out until you scream. Does that sound good?", and Ricky would probably have said yes if Pepe hadn't choked on his tongue five feet behind them.

Cris says, "Shit," and Ricky can't help but agree.

-

As Sergio goes to pick out his third cocktail from the drinks menu at the hotel bar, Ricky pulls the menu out of his hands (because someone has to) and says sharply, "We have a match tomorrow, you know." Sergio pouts and looks to Cris for support, but Cris doesn't even look up from the menu he's perusing. Sergio nudges him. Cris says, "No," and then adds, "What do you think of the hummus platter?"

Sergio says, "Well, are you going to eat all the celery? Because I'm sure as hell not."

Cris shrugs. "Sure? I'll eat anything."

And it's automatic that Ricky says in Portuguese, "Oh, I know," and then realizes that he's sitting next to Fábio.

Fábio looks at Ricky with bland distaste. "Seriously?"

"You know," Ricky blusters, "he's a regular vegetable fanatic."

"Your dick isn't a vegetable," Fábio says before knocking back the rest of his drink. Ricky gives him a look. Fábio raises his eyebrows. "Or is it? Oh, shit. Cris, are you into that?"

Cris sips his seltzer and says, "It's not a vegetable." Ricky whaps him on the back of his head with the drinks menu. Honestly.

-

Ricky is reading on his Kindle, or well, he's staring at the latest Paulo Coelho, which Carol loved and which he promised her he'd read. And he will. Eventually. Cris leans over Ricky's seatback into his space and grins at him. Ricky makes a grumpy face and shoves ineffectually at Cris's cheek, over-close. "I'm trying to read here." Cris just smiles wider at him. "What do you want?" Cris ruffles Ricky's hair. Ricky rolls his eyes. Trust Cris to make a big deal about his first away match now that he's fit again.

"Hi."

"Ugh, go sit in your seat like a grown man."

"Or you'll what?"

Ricky is about to tell him exactly what he'll do, which might involve breaking the Kindle (but he can afford a new one, and it'll be worth it), when Marcelo cuts in: "Guys, I'm sitting _right here_."

So Ricky tastefully answers, "You'll have to wait and see," and goes back to his Kindle, which sadly will live to see another day.

-

To be fair, Fábio is probably drunk. At least, Pepe deposited him with them in a "look out for the kid" kind of way, which is hilarious because Fábio is a grownass man who is also coincidentally cockblocking Ricky with a persistence that he does not usually encounter outside his own very small children, who don't know any better. Ricky shoots Cris the most significant eye contact he can manage and says, "Let's get out of here."

This is a mistake because Fábio says, "What, I'm not invited?", like he's being cheeky and clever instead of a giant fucking pain in the ass.

Cris says mildly, "Oh, sure, I'm sure Ricky and I'd love you to join in."

"Great," Fábio says. Then, he steals a gulp of Cris's drink before realizing, "This is _soda water_."

"Yes," Cris says grimly. "Yes, it is."

"I can't be part of a threesome with you and Ricky if I only have your soda water to drink."

"We're not having a threesome," Ricky cuts in, as Cris says, "Yeah, you've already had plenty."

"Yes, we are," Fábio says smugly. "Cris says."

"Cris doesn't make the rules," Ricky snaps, setting his tumbler of cranberry juice down with a crack.

Fábio waggles his eyebrows. "Oh, is that how it is?"

Somewhere behind him, Cris is flagging the bartender and asking for the bill. Ricky says, "That is exactly _how it is_."

Fábio shrugs. "Okay. What, you take ass, I'll take mouth?"

Ricky dumps his drink over Fábio's head, where it rolls down his astonished face in bloody rivulets. "Cris, we're leaving."

Cris says, "Um," so Ricky grabs his arm and starts towing him toward the exit away from the bar and Fábio. "I checked a coat?"

Ricky says, "I'll buy you a new one," and hails a goddamn taxi.

-

"It's a piggy bank," Cris says, and indeed, it is. It's a piggy bank in the shape of, well, a pig, but it has the pattern of a football on it and Marcelo has drawn jutting eyebrows for it and a little frown, so it looks furious. Then again, so does Marcelo but in the steely way that means he's disappointed in you.

"Yes, for your sins," Marcelo says, "or rather for your inability to keep your sex life to yourselves. You get a card based on the severity of the foul. One euro for yellow cards; two euro for red cards. You will deposit the coin in the pig and contemplate his disappointment in you."

"What, like I carry cash?" Ricky says, incredulous.

Marcelo shrugs. "You'd better start."

"What are you going to do with the money?" Cris asks.

Marcelo looks at him archly. "I'm going to pay for my therapy, asshole," is what he says, but Ricky catches him vetting organizations that support LGBT youth in Brazil on the bus later.

-

"Look," Ricky says with the vigor of a man protesting a penalty call, "I'm not trying to argue that he didn't say it. He did. It's just that, in context, it wasn't nearly as egregious as it sounds when Fábio is reciting it back to you."

"Let me get this straight," Marcelo says. "You're trying to argue that there were mitigating circumstances for Cris telling you to bend him over the couch when you get home."

"You see, when you put it like that, it sounds terrible," Ricky says.

"You're not helping," Cris cuts in.

"He's right: you're not helping," Marcelo says.

Ricky splutters. "This is absurd. I cannot believe—" He becomes inarticulate with frustration for a moment.

Marcelo shakes his head. "He said it, and you were in public. Red card offense."

"Ugh!" Ricky throws up his hands. "This is your fault."

"I think we all have a lot of regrets about this situation," Cris says diplomatically, and hands over a two-euro coin for himself.

Marcelo sticks out his hand to Ricky, who ostentatiously turns out the pockets of his Real Madrid sweatpants. "Put it on my tab." Cris wordlessly pulls a second coin out of his wallet and hands it to Marcelo. Typical.

-

A hat trick and in el derbi to boot. The real joy of it is in not having to keep his hands to himself. _Everyone_ is touching Cris, so Ricky can too. Cris is plonked down in front of his locker, blissed out on the joy of it, temporarily taken away from worrying about Junior and their being exposed and everything else, his hair sticking up at every odd angle from being ruffled so many times on the pitch. Iker strolls by and slaps him on the back. They all wander past, a long stream of casual congratulations, which are the best kind because they mean that his teammates know Cris is good for it. Of _course_ he scored. Of course he got a hat trick. He's Cristiano Ronaldo; this is what he does.

And Ricky watches appreciatively from in front of his own locker, moving slowly through his post-match routine, the sweat drying on his skin. Sergio yanks Cris up and into an intense hug, thumping him on the back. Over Sergio's shoulder, Cris is looking at him with the goofy smile that Ricky sometimes thinks he saves just for him. Ricky winks back at him and goes to wash up. When he gets back, towel slung across his hips, Cris is still lingering amid the ongoing parade of praise.

"What, you're still here?"

Cris shrugs, loose and happy. "I'll get there."

"Well, go on and get there," Ricky says, trying to sound impatient.

"All right, all right," Cris grumbles, collecting the enormous bucket of toiletries that are _de rigueur_ for him, even for a post-match shower, and dropping his sweaty neck towel on the bench.

Ricky picks it up and smacks Cris's ass with it. "You better wash up real good because I have plans for you later." Cris flashes him the biggest grin over his shoulder, which stutters and transforms into horror, and Ricky turns around to see Mou standing behind him.

His face is carefully neutral, composed in a way that means that he absolutely heard. He looks at Cris and says in his articulate Portuguese, "Congratulations," and turns on his heel and leaves.

Ricky sinks onto the bench, head in his hands. "Oh, Jesus."

Cris pats his head lightly, an absent-minded attempt at comfort, and adds constructively, "Fuck."

From the other side of the room, Pepe calls out, "That's a match ban, assholes," and frankly Ricky can't blame him. They might have to work on this.

**Author's Note:**

> You can also find me on [Tumblr](http://aphilologicalbatman.tumblr.com/).


End file.
